


Experiments (Watching Your Eyes)

by coffeecakelatte



Category: OMD (band)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 19:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeecakelatte/pseuds/coffeecakelatte
Summary: Set in the summer of 1980, Paul conducts a risky experiment.





	Experiments (Watching Your Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is a work of fiction.
> 
> Credit for a large part of this goes to @sparkle-o on Tumblr, who helped me brainstorm, develop, and write this, providing excellent commentary and fanart along the way. I really really appreciate their support.
> 
> I'd also like to give a shout-out to laliquey, whose fantastic beta-ing is the other half of why this exists.

The room is cool and dark, a perfect site for his study, and Paul is glad he brought them here. The studio was no longer a suitable location. Despite the overly sweet smell of detergent that hangs in the air, it feels sterile. There is little in the way of decoration: a table, a chair, a cheap lamp. And a bed, barely big enough for two, upon which he and his subject are positioned. Andy is reclining, his legs bent so that they do not exceed the edge of the bed, and Paul is watching him. More specifically, his eye is focused upon the unmistakable bulge in Andy’s briefs. He divested Andy of his clothes as soon as they made their way into the room, but somehow he had not counted upon seeing this, and the sight infuses him with excitement. His skin begins to tingle with the prospect of discovery.

However, bringing himself to action is another matter. As he moves his hand to the bulge, he takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. This is only theoretical. He is a scientist, and Andy is his experiment. _#103B: A Study of Human Male Arousal on a Body Not My Own._ He has maintained the calm, collected demeanour of a physician this whole time, and even if his thoughts have occasionally strayed into the inappropriate, it will not do to bring feelings into this. His own personal biases.

And yet it is still revelatory to lay his fingers over top of the bulge. He feels his breath catch in time with Andy’s as they both realize the line they are crossing. Andy’s erection is hot to the touch, and Paul finds himself wanting to go further, to curl the rest of his hand over it and press.

He closes his eyes and allows himself that one moment of indiscretion. The long, low moan that follows is enough to derail his experiment entirely. It goes straight to his crotch, and in vain, Paul tries to log an observation: _Provoking the male body, particularly that of someone with whom I have an emotional bond, can arouse me._ But Andy is above him, turning his name into something at once filthy and reverent, and his rational brain falters.

It almost hurts to take his hand away from the bulge, but he cannot risk distraction; there is more to discover. Still with his eyes closed, he hooks one finger into the waistband of Andy’s underwear and drags it down. When he finally opens his eyes, he is at a loss.

Instinctively, he notes physical details:

 _Length: average_  
_Circumference: average, perhaps slightly thicker than normal_  
_Colour: reddish, surrounded by black curls_  
_Angle: approx. 95 degrees_  
_Feel:_

As he contemplates filling out that last detail, his throat goes dry. Slowly, he reaches and touches the head of Andy’s bare cock, which is hot and much smoother than expected. A bead of precome is forming at the tip, giving it a slight slickness, which he absently massages into his fingers before letting his hand fall away. Paul is amazed. He can hardly believe how well he’s done, how easily he’s brought on arousal in a man. There is a bit of bias, he is quick to remind himself, since he knows firsthand what will provoke another of his ilk. But it is nonetheless an incredible discovery, made only more incredible by the fact that Andy has been such a willing subject.

His mind flashes to earlier in the day. Experiment #103 was concocted while they were in the Gramophone Suite, going over the new single. At one point between takes, Andy paused and licked his lips. The movement had drawn Paul’s attention, and he realized that he’d never kissed a man before. Somehow, that experience had eluded him in his twenty years. He filed it in the category of future scientific endeavours, something that he might try several months down the line, and went on with his day.

But it all changed only an hour ago, when they finally finished recording. Paul was laying his head against the control board, utterly exhausted. Eleven solid hours in the same tiny studio could do that to you, and it was all Andy’s fault. His perfectionism had stretched this godforsaken single into an entire day’s work. No, they couldn’t use that take, you could hear a slight intake of breath. No, not that one, his “s” was too sibilant. No, not _that_ one either, he was off-key towards the end (the part that no one would fucking hear). And on and on and on. Any protests to the contrary would be met with an icy glare and a few choice words, with the presumption that Paul couldn’t possibly know what he was doing. If he wanted to create a subpar product, he could very well bugger off and go do that himself, but Andy was making art. Stupid. Paul’s artistic instincts were just as finely honed, possibly more, and Andy’s arrogance was wearing on his last nerve. Why did they even get back together if Andy was still going to treat him like this?

Then they listened to the sixteenth take, and Andy’s demeanour softened.

“Do you know, that one wasn’t bad.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. Not bad at all.” He removed his headphones and turned to Paul, hesitating. “Sorry—if I’ve been—rude today. I don’t mean to.”

Paul waved him away. “S'fine.”

“No, really. I’ve been trying not to be such an uptight git all the time, but sometimes…well. Sorry. Again. And thanks.”

“For?”

“Erm…being patient, I suppose.”

The look on his face was unusually stark and vulnerable, and Paul felt something twist in his gut. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he leaned in and gave experiment #103 a go.

And that was just it. It had only been #103 until the kiss uncovered a crucial gap in his research. When Andy pulled away, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes had gone dark. Noting his dazed expression, Paul slotted an “A” beside the number and immediately devised part B. He pushed Andy against the wall and pressed his lips to his neck.

That is how it started, and Paul is not sure where it will end, or even whether he has succeeded, given the continual revisioning of the experiment. Adding the “B” was initially meant as a way to extend the study without pinning down what he wanted to examine, a placeholder of sorts. In light of this extension, a new location was proposed. His wording was far from elegant, a very blunt “If we’re going to do this, can we at least not do it in the Suite,” but thankfully Andy didn’t protest. He knew a place, in fact.

It turned out to be a cheap little motel four blocks away. They walked there briskly, not looking at each other, then paid and dashed up to the small, intimate room, where they could finally allow themselves the luxury of looking. Paul took a deep breath, feeling somehow like a match was being set, and undid the first button at Andy’s throat.

Paul has spent the last fifteen minutes on this part of the experiment. He has slowly undressed Andy and pressed hands and lips to every inch of bared skin, trying to figure out exactly what that mysterious “B” could be. Gradually, the motive has become clear: an examination of male arousal. The physiological changes in Andy’s body have been fascinating to witness. The flushed skin, the tension in the muscles, the increased heart rate, the erected nipples, the bulge—it has all been noted with enormous diligence, and already Paul feels as though he could write a book on the subject. So in that sense he has succeeded, at least thus far.

But then, surely his own nudity was never meant to be part of it, and in another moment of poor judgment, he let Andy remove his shirt. Soon after, he let him stroke his bare pectorals. He wasn’t thinking. He should have been watching Andy all this time; instead, he’d arched up into the touch, consumed by the unexpected pleasure of the sensation. He did regain his senses just as Andy was about to reach for his trousers, but even that was a check in the “failure” column, as Andy likely saw his erection. Paul tries not to think about that. His own arousal is far from the point.

He is determined not to let any similar mishaps impede his progress. As he works out the next step of the experiment, he studies Andy on the bed. His body is a marvel of human engineering: longer than average, lean, and ever-so-slightly defined, composed of fascinating lines and shapes. The line of his neck is especially stunning in the context of his body, and Paul feels the urge to trace it with his tongue. He licks his lips unconsciously, and then locks eyes with Andy, who is gazing at him with searing lust. It almost takes his breath away. He looks back down, then shifts so that he is pressed up against Andy’s side, face to face with the part of him that intimidates him most. Just a few moments ago, he was feeling amazed; now, as he realizes what he wants to do, his heart is pounding. From experience, he knows that this is the most straightforward route to male orgasm, but he has never done this before. He is on the edge of either success or failure, and in the next few seconds, he will find out which.

Holding Andy’s cock with an unsteady hand, he gives one tentative lick to the glans. The reaction is immediate; Andy grips the sheets and moans, his eyes closing involuntarily. Great. One step closer to success. Gratification spreads through Paul, and he wraps his hand around the base more firmly, swirling his tongue around the head in a long, languorous circle. The taste is fairly neutral, more salty than anything, but the smell is something else—rich and multilayered, composed of several different olfactory notes, all intensely erotic. It would take a lifetime to identify each one, and in his mental notebook, Paul jots _scent: indescribable._ That could form the basis for another experiment.

Of all the new stimuli, though, the most compelling is the sight of Andy, his composure gradually dissolving as Paul circles him. His whole body is reacting to this, and some twisted part of Paul is enjoying seeing his former rival slowly taken apart by just the motion of his tongue. He feels his heartbeat again, but this time it is beating with the promise of his own power. There are still a few stray nerves at the thought of taking all of Andy into his mouth, but he is able to bat those away. Mostly, he feels more powerful than he ever has around Andy, and as he lifts off to contemplate his handiwork, a smile forms.

“P-Paul—please—”

 _Two seconds without my mouth and you’re already begging,_ Paul thinks. It is a completely uncharitable thought, and unscientific besides, but it thrills him. He looks up at Andy and is shocked to find his face transformed. Somehow it has become the picture of supplication. He almost takes pity, before remembering what Andy has done to him in the past. He can afford a bit of waiting.

“You like this, don’t you,” Paul says, working the foreskin up and down, his voice utterly foreign to his own ears.

Andy nods.

 _Good._ He holds Andy’s gaze for one more second, dragging him out just a little longer, before finally bringing his mouth down over the head.

He tries to remember what previous girlfriends have done. Teeth tucked safely away behind the lips, the mouth a warm and welcoming vessel. Creating a slow and steady rhythm. A bit of tongue action. He paces himself at first, not wanting to take too much. Up and down. Once he has mastered the technique, it is easy enough. Soon he is able to go halfway down the shaft, and a shiver runs through him as he realizes he’s dissolved another one of Andy’s mechanisms: speech. It has been reduced to a shadow of its former coherence; all he seems capable of producing now are gasps, moans, curses, and variations on Paul’s name. Paul has never considered his own name erotic, but hearing the way Andy stretches it—so that it lasts several syllables as opposed to the terse monosyllable it usually is—makes him wish that he had brought a tape recorder, so he could preserve the sound in time. Or that they were getting off in the recording studio.

Paul corrects himself. This is not “getting off”. This is an experiment.

He shuts his eyes; this must be kept purely scientific. He decides to devote all of his attention to the auditory side of the encounter. The stream of meaningless words has become more like a waterfall at this point, for how constant and forceful it is. In response, Paul dives in even further, three-quarters of the way down. This proves to be too much for him and he coughs, feeling unaccountably angry. He hopes Andy can’t see the blush spreading across his face. The failure column is growing.

Perhaps this would work better if Andy were vertical rather than horizontal. His neck has been straining at this angle; the position is not ideal. His mouth muscles need a break, at any rate. Waiting for the blush to pass, he pulls off, then coaxes Andy upward with his palm.

Andy slowly rises on shaking legs. He is standing on his knees, and the sight of him, achingly hard and unsure of himself, is so titillating that Paul is unable to react. His mouth goes dry, and further down, he feels the throbbing return to his groin. He curses under his breath. It has been a continual problem for him, this erection. He has had to fight his hardest not to give into his base impulses: to rut into the mattress, to palm himself, hell, even to undo his zip. Doing so would mean admitting—to the both of them—that this encounter has affected him on more than just a theoretical level.

“Close your eyes,” Paul orders. Thankfully, Andy is none the wiser and does as he is told. Another little thrill runs through him at Andy’s obedience. Paul smiles, then unzips himself just enough to relieve some of the strain.

He checks to see if Andy’s eyes are still closed. Excellent. With a final deep breath, he grabs a fistful of Andy’s arse and takes him all the way.

As he does, it becomes clear what the end of this process is. He has seen enough male arousal to last him a lifetime, and experienced its every dimension. All great experiments have three parts, and he adds a “C” to the list. Funny, that letter. C. Culmination. Completion. Conclusion.

He wants to see if he is capable of bringing another man to orgasm. Throughout this whole experiment, he has noticed exactly which parts of Andy are most sensitive, and he arms himself with that knowledge now. His tongue is a weapon, capable of decimating each of Andy’s senses. He slides the flat of it along the underside of the shaft, slow and deliberate, drawing out another long and lovely moan. Then he pulls off to have another look at his creation. _God, what a fucking marvel._ His gaze happens to drift upward, to Andy, who still has his eyes shut.

“You can open your eyes now,” Paul says, faintly amused.

Andy’s eyes snap open with a start. He looks down at Paul, who has taken to lightly stroking his inner thighs. The intent is to tease, but it is as much a stalling mechanism, as the intimidation has returned. His mind is suddenly bombarding him with questions—ones he should have thought of long before attempting this experiment. Will he swallow? If not, what will he do with the natural result of the orgasm? If he tries, what if he can’t get it all down? Why are they doing this? Does it matter that Andy is particularly close to him? Does their history enter the equation? If this were only scientific, wouldn’t any man have worked? He can’t imagine doing this with anyone else. Where is the line between pure curiosity and repressed sexual attraction?

That last question sends a chill down his spine. Trembling, he dives back onto Andy, hell-bent on making him come. He issues himself a series of commands. Back and forth. Relax your throat. Firmer on the upstroke than the down. Flick your tongue over the head, and watch him while you do it. Smile. Wet your lips. Then do it all over again. He is fairly certain that he is drooling, and his fingers are pressed tight enough around Andy’s arse to bruise, but it doesn’t matter. Andy is reacting. He is trembling too, and Paul can tell that he is close. His balls are drawn up and he has begun to buck into Paul’s mouth.

Close. Tantalizingly close. Paul can ignore any of the physical discomfort arising from the situation, knowing that he is inches away from success. He thinks about what will tip him over the breaking point. He is already doing almost all he can, short of—oh, there’s an idea. A bit of acting never hurt.

He grabs Andy’s arse harder and moans around his cock. Really, with how much he’s enjoying this, he barely needs to act, and Andy is completely inarticulate, making a sound that can only be described as desperation manifest. He has never looked so weak, so helpless, so perfectly out of control.

All of a sudden, Paul feels a hand in his hair, fingers twining in the strands at the back of his neck and tugging gently. He is taken aback by how nice it feels, and he moans again, this time for real. Then Andy gasps, his fingers tighten in Paul’s hair, his cock twitches, and then—

Success.

He swallows and sits back, pride flooding through him. He has finally done it. Experiment #103 has been seen through to completion. All of its elements were successful, something very rare in Paul’s experience. He feels glorious, like he could take on anything.

Then he chances another look up at Andy, and it all starts to go wrong. Andy is gazing at him softly, a strange mix of lust, reverence, and genuine affection in his eyes. Oh no. He trails a finger down Paul’s bare chest, biting his lip, and intones the words “Now let me do you.”

It dawns on Paul what he has just done. Andy knew no pretence of an “experiment”; his best friend has just kissed him, stripped him, and sucked him off. In light of that, it would certainly seem a reasonable indicator that Paul wanted to fuck him. And the hell of it is, judging by the still-hard-as-steel erection in his trousers, maybe that is true.

 _Where is the line?_ The question rattles about in his brain, taunting him. He is no longer sure of the answer. Andy has moved behind him, and the warmth of his body is causing Paul to tense up all over. Then he feels a trail of kisses down the back of his neck, and the physical pleasure that would normally follow such an action is replaced by a bone-cold ache. Though Andy’s hands are only gently resting upon his shoulders, they freeze him in place.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?” Andy whispers into his ear.

Paul shakes his head, incapable of doing anything else.

“For too bloody long.”

There is that heartbeat again, a furious one-two thump. The errors in Paul’s logic start to reveal themselves, and his mind enumerates the ways in which this fails to resemble a sound experiment.

  1. There was no hypothesis being tested. (Unless the discovery of his latent bisexuality counts, but again, that is an incidental finding, not the initial theory, or anything he was even aware of before today.)
  2. He modified the experiment for arbitrary personal reasons.
  3. His thoughts have been far from objective, and he let his emotions towards the subject govern his behaviour.
  4. He has an unusual pre-existing relationship with the subject, who was not chosen objectively or at random.
  5. At no point in the study did he inform the subject of his own subjecthood. Besides being a total breach of ethics, this has led to manipulation of the subject’s emotions. Both parties were operating under false pretences.
  6. He has turned his initial curiosity—which may indeed have been scientific—into the subject of a fake “experiment” designed to conceal his true motivation.



That motivation makes itself abundantly clear when Andy stretches his long body over the bed, looking up with an impish smile. Paul catches himself eyeing the curve of his arse, which has five little red marks, and he thinks _those were my fingers._ And still he feels the urge to place his fingers in those indents, as though they belong there. He follows the curve to where it leads—down a thigh, then along a nicely-muscled calf, and finally to the angle of his foot, planted into the bedsheets. It is like looking at the world’s most beautiful car crash: horrifying, yet utterly compelling. He cannot tear his eyes away.

He is so mesmerized that he fails to notice Andy reaching for his belt. Only the _clunk_ as the buckle hits the floor is enough to snap him out of his reverie. Just as Andy is about to drag down his trousers, Paul presses his hands away.

Andy looks hurt. “Why not?”

“I—I can’t,” Paul chokes out, the ache having travelled to his throat.

“S'okay. It’s my first time, too.” Andy goes quiet, then adds, “W-with a bloke, I mean.”

 _How do I respond to that?_ Paul shakes his head again.

“Don’t you wanna get off?”

Paul is hopelessly torn. He is desperate for sexual release, and a large part of him wants to strip naked and grind against Andy until he comes all over him. The other part of him is horrified that he just had that thought, since Andy is his closest friend and deepest rival, all in one. Their relationship is complicated enough without introducing sex into the equation. And he is worried about what this means. For years now, a certain tension has been governing all their interactions, so that even when they were the best of friends, they didn’t get on perfectly. There would always be a bit of awkwardness—glances held too long, conversations that didn’t quite connect, subtle power manoeuvres. He could never have placed that tension as sexual, but it makes sense.

Back when they were enemies, much of Paul’s loathing was based on the way Andy looked. He would find himself alone at night, completely separate from Andy, yet obsessing over his appearance. His curly mop of a hairdo, his wide and serious brow, his impassive expression, the round bump at the end of his nose. No other person could be conjured up so readily in his mind. He would think stupid, teenage things, things like _I hate him and his idiot poodle hair. And that little ridge that appears between his brows when he scrunches them together at you. He looks like a right tosser._ Those internal conversations could last for hours on end, and he never once questioned them until now. He was paying an unusual amount of attention to the physical attributes of somebody he hated. With anyone else, sure, he may have found them uglier as a result of his disdain, but it was never a fixation.

“Paul?”

He looks up, startled. Andy is staring at him, that very same ridge having formed in his brow. This time, though, it is just an expression, not proof that Andy thinks himself superior or anything. Really, he should have realized this a long time ago. All phenomena has no meaning other than what humans ascribe to it. His face is just another face. Not even a particularly attractive one—rather on the plain side—but one that Paul is attracted to. And if tonight has been any indication, it is mutual.

Something else dawns on him suddenly—an even bigger flaw in his logic. There is no ethical dilemma; Paul was lying to himself about his intentions. He wanted this, too. His curiosity was borne out of a longing that he failed to understand, and thereby transmuted into something more acceptable. Science was a simple, pat explanation, something that was easier to wrap his head around than being attracted to his best friend. But in that first kiss, his motivation was far from scientific. It was pure instinct. He was tapping into a desire that he was finally ready to articulate.

Paul notices that the ache in his head has vanished. Looking at Andy, he nods.

Andy lets out a breath, then reaches again for Paul’s trousers. Instead of dragging them down, though, he hooks his fingers in the belt loops and pulls Paul in for an unexpected kiss. Both of them are on their knees, for the first time perfect equals.

This kiss is slower and deeper, and Paul revels in how nice it feels to simply kiss Andy, thinking of nothing but how good it feels. He slides a hand into Andy’s curly hair, cropped shorter but no less thick than ever, and tugs. Andy moans into his mouth in response, and the double sensory hit of sound and sensation takes him by surprise. He realizes that there is still plenty more to experience; his experiment is far from complete. Knowing that it is all a farce anyway, he adds a “D” to the ever-growing list. _#103D: Letting Another Man Get Me Off._

He breaks away, once again noticing the line of Andy’s neck. He indulges his former urge, running his tongue from the smooth plane of Andy’s shoulder to where it starts to curve, enjoying the way that he is able to viscerally capture the beauty of his body. As he does, he feels Andy’s renewed erection against his thigh, and he cannot help but gasp. The subject’s refractory period is shorter than average, he thinks.

That is the last observation Paul is able to make, though, as Andy presses him to the bed. Paul feels a surge of nerves at the thought of Andy taking control. He has maintained some semblance of dominance throughout this entire encounter, or at least egality, and to give it up is unnerving. Even more frightening is the part of him, small but still noticeably there, that wants to be ravished. The combined terror and arousal leaves him shaking as Andy moves down lower, lower, until he is stroking Paul’s thighs. Paul wonders if this, too, is a stalling mechanism.

“Can I—?” Andy looks up, fascination evident in his eyes.

“Yeah.”

Andy breathes in, steeling himself, and drags off Paul’s trousers, tugging at each leg until his lower half is bared. Then he reaches a trembling hand towards the waistband of Paul’s underwear. _He is losing his nerve,_ Paul thinks with an illicit thrill, and decides to watch him. Andy is unable to maintain eye contact for more than two seconds, and ends up burying his face in the bed in a blatant display of submission. Paul needn’t have worried about losing power.

“When you look at me like that…” Andy trails off, face pressed into the mattress.

“…what?”

Andy turns, looking at Paul with the same vulnerability that sparked this whole encounter. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

He rears back up, sitting on his haunches, and shakes his head. “Sorry. Ignore me. It’s fine.” But his hand is still unsteady as it makes its second attempt towards Paul’s briefs. Paul grips his wrist and guides him most of the way, letting go when Andy has finally reached his thigh. Then, setting his jaw, Andy curls his fingers around the waistband and jerks it down and off his body.

As cool, blessed air rushes to his erection, Paul sighs. That bit of fabric was like a fucking prison. But the relief only lasts until Andy stretches over his body, planting his hands on either side of him and gazing down. Any hesitation seems to have disappeared outright, what with the way he is looking at Paul. His eyes move in a steady downwards trajectory, lingering on his cock for five agonizing seconds before flicking back up to his face. Paul can’t help but turn away at the intensity of his gaze. Quite an intimidating move, that. He forces himself to look back, and the two stare at one another, a connection running through them even though they are not touching.

“God, you look good,” Andy says, his voice even lower and rougher than usual. Somehow, even though Paul has heard it his whole life, it is an enormous turn-on in this context. There is one final, heated moment before Andy dives onto him, his callused hands running up his chest, down his thighs, up over his neck, along the sensitive skin of his sides—everywhere within reach. Paul feels like his body is full of filaments, and Andy’s fingers are electric currents, lighting up every surface they graze. He can hardly think of what it will be like when Andy finally touches his cock.

When he does, it’s with the same nervous awe that Paul himself had demonstrated only thirty minutes ago. Then he poses a terrifying question. “What do you want?”

Paul is unable to respond. Whether it be due to his intense arousal, his natural shyness, or the tiny bit of fear lodged in his psyche, his voice is caught in his throat. Yet another check in the failure column—he had not accounted for his own pleasure in this half-baked mess of an experiment. He’d assumed—what, exactly? That he’d go wank himself afterwards? No, there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. All of this has been invented on the spot, like an improvised solo. But this is an unusually long and elaborate solo, one that has no definite end. Actually, it is more like a duet—two men at their instruments, sometimes battling, sometimes synthesizing together. Above this conscious thought is the subconscious metathought that he is stalling, once again, by allowing his brain to trail off into such an extended, overwrought analogy. Andy has been remarkably patient this whole time, but even he has his limits.

He rolls onto his side, his face soft and vulnerable. “Show me.”

Paul considers it. Only one possibility has made itself clear so far. He leans up just enough to grab Andy’s hand, bringing it to his cock, and Andy seems to get the idea; he wraps those long fingers around the shaft and pumps once. “That?”

“Yeah.” There. That was a word, however choked-out it was.

“Okay.” Andy sidles up next to him as close as he possibly can, and Paul can feel his hard cock against his thigh. “Just let me know if I’m going too slow, or…”

 _Fuck. Let him know?_ Paul nods, hoping that Andy will be satisfied with nonverbal cues.

Andy breathes in, then pumps down again. After so long without contact, the feeling is incredibly intense. As Andy works him over, Paul registers a great disconnect between his brain and his body. While his mind is still trying to comprehend that this is happening, his body is five steps ahead. His hips are arching up into Andy’s grasp, his lips are moving and letting out small moans, and his breathing has gone ragged. Most of all, he notices his heartbeat—the one constant throughout all this—ramming out a hard and steady rhythm. It is truly remarkable. Paul cannot remember the last time he let his body do the thinking for him. He is so used to perceiving himself as an intellectual creature first that to be reminded of his own corporeal being is a dizzying, even humbling experience. A dozen filthy, base, human thoughts are working their way into his head, and he lets himself think them. Mostly relating to Andy. How much he wants him, how titillating it is to have him so close, how—is that—

Yes, that is Andy, grinding against his thigh. Oh fuck, that’s good. Andy isn’t exactly graceful, alternating strokes and grinds with a slight clumsiness, but Paul doesn’t think about that; he thinks about what could be. At least five possibilities have arisen since he noticed Andy rutting against him. The hot, slick feel of it is doing wonders for his imagination. Ideas flash through his head in a series of split-second words, images, and sounds, just as he would if he were wanking himself alone.

Then, one possibility makes his face grow red. He rubs his lips together, thinking. He has to try this out.

“Andy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you—”

And there his throat closes up again. Luckily, his limbs can communicate just as well. Paul wraps an arm around Andy, pulling him on top. As he shifts, he can feel the slow drag of Andy’s cock along his stomach, inch by agonizing inch, until it is flush with his own.

For a moment, neither of them moves. Paul can barely think about moving, so overwhelming is the sensation. Of course, the physical side of it is hot enough, but it is the intimacy that takes his breath away. He has never been so close to Andy before, and at this angle, Paul can see just how much this encounter has affected him. He notes the details with exactitude: the degree to which Andy’s pupils have dilated, the curve of his parted lips, the hue of his cheeks, the three beads of sweat rolling down his face. Instinctively, Paul tilts up and wipes them away with his thumb.

Andy smiles, then lifts himself up slightly and starts to move. The first brush of his cock produces a full-body shudder in Paul, and it takes all his willpower not to come in that instant. Paul grits his teeth, then rocks his hips against Andy’s, setting a rhythm.

It is even better than Paul imagined. Sparks are fizzling everywhere in his lower half, not just in his cock but in his thighs, his rear, the backs of his knees. His whole body is taken by a glorious sense of aliveness. They work well like this, pushing and pulling and sliding against each other, and Paul is struck by a realization. He is not a scientist—he is an engineer. Their bodies are two meshing gears working in perfect sync, powering something much larger and more important than either of them know. Electricity. Music. Art. This is why they got back together—despite all the conflict, their creative energy was too good to give up on. The engine needed to spin.

Suddenly, Andy’s arms give out from the strain and he comes crashing down. And still he keeps that flawless rhythm, rolling back and forth. One arm wraps around Paul’s shoulder, the other high up on his side, and it all jars into place. Even at a physical level, they fit together. Their bodies are so similar in height and build that they are level in almost every regard: legs, hips, chest, shoulders, up to their faces, two inches apart.

Soon, even that distance is breached as Andy grabs his face and kisses him. Paul tenses up, his heart rate quickening, and he has to tell himself to breathe. This is just Andy after all, nothing to be afraid of. To steady himself, he extracts his arm out from under Andy and clutches his face in kind. Andy’s grip eventually gentles, his thumb brushing softly over Paul’s cheek, but the kiss loses none of its intensity. He pulls away with a gasp, trembling all over.

“I…I…”

Andy is at an evident loss for words—and, as the seconds drift on by, actions. His hips grind to a halt, his head tilts, and he looks at Paul curiously. After a long pause, he asks him, “what are you thinking?”

The question is likely sincere, but it comes to Paul’s ears as an attack. He can’t help feeling like there was an emphasis on the word _you_ , as though Andy was afraid of his own thoughts and wanted to turn the focus on him. Paul recognizes that as projection on his part, but he is too terrified to care. What is he thinking? As he stares up at Andy, waiting for the answer, his mind empties until it is blank. All he can see is a white canvas, concealing the thoughts that have been scaring him. Desperate, he searches for the last palatable thought he had. _I’m going to come any second now_ —no, that won’t do. _I can’t believe I’m having sex with Andy fucking McCluskey_ is worse. Not especially flattering. And then there is the one that he has refused to let himself think, that starts with “l” and is completely, utterly inappropriate, only brought on by the endorphins running through his veins.

Paul shakes his head, unwilling to give a verbal answer. Too risky. Instead he responds by grabbing Andy’s shoulder, using it as an anchor, and pressing himself firm against his pelvis. His other arm comes out to grasp Andy’s arse, right in the five little indents. This is better than speaking. He shifts down in one excruciatingly slow motion, the sweat delaying his descent and making their bodies stick together. The sensation is painfully, deliciously intense, and he falls back down, overcome with arousal. He is on the very edge of gratification, every filament in his body set alight.

Then Andy leans in close. “Wanna know something funny?”

 _Funny_ is hardly the word Paul wants to hear right now, but he nods anyway.

“I always thought you’d be on top.”

That is too much. He can’t take it anymore. Lightning strikes his groin once, then twice, making him arch up and convulse and come, in powerful aftershocks that can be felt everywhere. He trembles for several seconds afterwards. It is as though his orgasm has triggered a chain reaction, for Andy is coming not a moment later. He shudders and grips Paul’s arms for balance, then goes still. Amidst the general comedown, there is the tiniest flash of envy at the thought that Andy is, apparently, multi-orgasmic. He had thought that was a myth.

Andy smiles and gives him a quick kiss. He brushes away some of the hair that has fallen in Paul’s eyes. The motion is familiar, and Paul realizes that he had been doing that this whole time, like a lover would. He feels that same twist of the gut, which is only doubled when he meets Andy’s eyes. There is more tenderness and warmth in them than Paul has ever seen before.

“Wow,” says Andy. “Forgive me if this is too crude for pillow-talk, but I’ve never come like that. Y'know…twice.”

So this is the first time. And Paul brought it on. As Andy keeps talking, he feels a surge of that glorious power return. “That was…I mean…fuck, I don’t know. I’m still boggling at the fact that you even wanted to.”

 _Me too,_ Paul thinks. He says nothing, though, still not trusting himself to speak. The release of oxytocin and dopamine is doing strange things to his brain, and all the thoughts he wants to say are centred around that lethal “l” word. He bites down hard on his lip and lets Andy fill the silence.

“I wish I could’ve seen you come, though. My eyes go closed.”

Andy peels off and flops down beside him, a smear of white on his stomach. Paul looks down and notices an identical smear on his own. Proof of their irrefutable bond is written across his abdomen; he can’t even tell whose come is whose. They came nearly simultaneously, after all.

As Paul gazes down at himself, his rationality starts to come back. This will dry eventually. “We should—”

“No, hold on.” Andy touches his wrist lightly, a devious look in his eye. “Let me try something.”

He presses Paul to the bed again, then runs his tongue along the glistening trail. The softness and slickness of Andy’s tongue makes him quiver and he grips the bed, wishing he weren’t so sensitive post-orgasm. The slightest bit of contact can make him go crazy.

Andy sits up, rubbing his lips together. “It’s not nice, is it.”

“No, it really isn’t, you bugger. Like a mix of pool water and glue.” Somehow, the orgasm has relaxed him to the point where he can actually joke.

“Hey, I’m not the one who decided to give my best friend a blow. You started it.”

Andy is smiling, but all Paul can think is _oh God, he’s right._ A chill descends upon him and suddenly, he needs to be alone. He flicks his wrist towards the loo, trying to infuse his voice with a sense of confidence. “Go get us a washcloth.”

“Please?” Andy prompts him, his grin growing wider.

“Fuck off,” Paul says, and it comes out sounding less joshing, more genuinely irritated. As he sees Andy’s grin fade, he sighs. He should have just kept his mouth shut. “Sorry. _Please_.”

After a moment, Andy slowly gets up and leaves.

Paul watches him go without a word, wondering if he will come back. A strange mix of emotions are coming to a boil in his head. The room is rather drafty without another human body to provide heat, and Andy’s absence is tangibly felt. Outside, a light rain has begun to fall. The patter of the raindrops is soothing, and he closes his eyes, trying to focus entirely on that and not on the thoughts running through his head. Funny to think that this all started because of an “experiment”. What a farce that was. He scrunches up the duvet, wanting to feel something underneath his hands, then wraps it around himself. All of his defences have been stripped, and now he is reacting to things with the emotional intensity of someone half his age. He curls into himself, a lump in his throat. He would give anything to go back to the utter blank canvas of earlier, rather than all the worries that besiege him now.

Mostly, he is worried about how he will think tomorrow. Tonight is fine. He can live with the reality now. But tomorrow he will wake, and for a few blessed minutes he will live life untroubled until it hits him. Or perhaps it will fill his dreams, and he will wake up carrying the thought in his mind. Or perhaps he will not sleep at all. Paul curls his body up tighter, pressing his knees to his chest, and shivers.

“Cold, warm, or hot?”

Paul turns and sees Andy at the doorway, holding a blue cloth. It is such a simple, inconsequential question that it sets him aback. “Hot, please.”

Andy smiles and disappears again, and Paul unfurls, a bit calmer. He appreciates when Andy gives him alternatives like that. Makes holding a conversation easier.

When Andy returns, brandishing the soaked rag, he cleans Paul first, which is also appreciated. Though Paul is much less sensitive now, the rough, wet texture of the cloth still feels nice on his skin, and it is a relief to be clean. Andy uses the other side for his own stomach, then goes and rinses the thing. Paul can’t help but be amused at his diligence.

Andy joins him on the bed, lying down next to him, but keeps a physical distance that makes Paul ache. They stare at each other, one foot apart. Even though he wants to touch Andy, Paul is afraid, given what they have just done. Touching means something different now. Even maintaining eye contact is difficult after a while, and his gaze drifts to Andy’s chest. He wonders if he can curl up there instead.

“So…” Andy begins. “Obviously, I’ve…thought about this. Before. You and me, I mean.”

“For how long?”

“A while.”

“Is it…” The next few words get stuck in Paul’s throat. “…just sexual, or…?”

“I don’t know.”

His vagueness is irritating Paul, not to mention his terseness. Andy is not supposed to be the quiet one. In hopes of getting Andy to talk again, he tries to come up with a more inspiring prompt. It ends up being something of a non-sequitur, but whatever. “What made you want to write a song about an atomic bomb, anyway?”

Andy goes into a long ramble about his fascination with World War II, and how it is important to write songs about all things that affect us as humans, and how he could never write a good love song, anyway, because the topic is too big. Relieved, Paul loosens up, listening to Andy speak.

He fails to catch the last few words, though, as his thoughts slide back into lust. Once again, he has become entranced by the lines of Andy’s body. He looks at the curve of his neck and thinks about how it would feel to kiss Andy’s throat as he was singing. There is an entire realm of sensuality yet to explore. Andy is still talking, but Paul doesn’t process the shape of the words as much as the tone, low and intimate. It is sending chills through his head. He thinks about the times he has heard Andy sing in this range, and adds that to the fantasy. His lips would vibrate under the motion of his Adam’s apple, and he would grow steadily weaker as the sound of Andy’s lush, dark voice bathed his ears. Then he would move up and capture his mouth, and—

“Paul?”

 _Oh god, he can see right through me,_ Paul thinks with a sinking feeling. He has been fantasizing about his best mate right in front of him. Never mind that they’ve just had sex—somehow, that still feels like crossing a line. “Yes?”

“Sorry. Just checking to make sure you weren’t asleep. I do waffle on sometimes.”

Paul smiles despite himself. Maybe this could be OK.

“You know, it’s funny,“ Andy says, after a pause. "I was a right prick to you for years and only now do I know why.”

“Yeah?”

"It’s so ridiculous, looking back on it…” He rolls away from Paul, staring up at the ceiling, his hands folded over his chest. “I’d have these nights, right, where I couldn’t stop obsessing over you. The way you looked, the way you acted. I told myself it’s ‘cause I hated you, which—well. I kind of did. But more because of the power you held than anything.”

Paul lets that sink in. The power he held. He has never seen himself as the one with the power in this relationship. Andy was always the older, the smarter, the more confident one. The one who could silence him with just a glance. The one whose stream of ideas flowed so swiftly that Paul could barely keep up. The one who seemed to have it all together.

“The power I held?” Paul repeats, mostly for his own sake.

Andy gives him a nervous look, as if to _say don’t make me say it._ “I wanted you. I hated how attractive you were to me.”

He sighs. “Even saying that…it’s hard, you know. I’ve never been…attracted…to another man before. So I’d spend the night thinking, _why is it that he can pull so many girls when he looks like a fucking ponce?_ And then when I’d finally fall asleep, I’d have these dreams, where…well.”

Paul wonders why he is feeling so chilled at that, and then he remembers. He used to have those dreams, too. Back when they were rivals, Paul’s subconscious liked nothing more than to toss him an elaborate nighttime fantasy of him fucking the person he hated the most. He would wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and painfully hard. How has he forgotten those dreams? Repression must be a more powerful force than he has ever given it credit for.

At the time, he considered it his body betraying him. He was always humiliated by those dreams, particularly when he had to confront Andy the next day. Now he understands that his body had caught on long before he had.

“I had those too,” Paul says quietly, not really knowing why. To comfort him?

“Did you? Oh, good. That makes me feel better.”

Paul bristles a bit before realizing that Andy is being completely sincere. Normally, a sentence like that would be laced with sarcasm coming from him, and Paul can still hear its residual ring. He has to retrain his ears to hear it for what it is. Both of them have hidden their true intents for so long that emotional honesty is like a second language.

At least Andy is no better at it than him. “Can I…hold you? I know you probably don’t want to, but…”

Paul nods, and Andy pulls him into a hug, pressing him close. One hand strokes his hair soothingly, while the other runs up and down his back. It feels good to be in Andy’s embrace again. Paul shifts in closer, finding a comforting regularity in the sound of Andy’s heartbeat.

Andy presses a kiss to the top of his head, and Paul feels a flutter in his chest. It is the first acknowledgement of their new dynamic, and while the physical feeling is nice, the intimacy of it scares him. His worrywart mind gloms onto all the uncertainties, sending another barrage of questions to which there is no ready answer. What does this mean for their relationship? Are they going to do it again? Does he _want_ to do it again? Does this mean Andy is going to start treating him like an artistic equal? Or is he just going to get worse, now that Paul knows about his best-kept secret? But then, Paul was keeping that secret too, wasn’t he? What are their arguments going to be like now? Will one row split them apart for life? He twists uncomfortably, wanting to thump his head on the nearest possible surface, which happens to be Andy’s chest. He has never been comfortable with the unknown.

“Did you like it?” Andy asks.

Of all the questions, that one is by far the easiest, and Paul finds himself answering instantly. “I loved it.”

“Good. Good. I’m glad.” Andy tucks a stray lock of hair behind Paul’s ear. There is a long pause before he speaks again. “What do you think about…this?”

Oh hell, now Andy wants to know. Paul takes a while to formulate a response, moulding it in his head until it is a complete sentence that acknowledges all variables and nuances. “I’m feeling very overwhelmed right now, and I’m not in a position to answer that. Can we please leave it to tomorrow?”

Andy kisses his head again. “Yeah, that’s fine. Hey…” He looks out the window, where the light has all but faded and the screen is splattered with raindrops. “Are you up for an adventure?”

Tonight has felt like adventure enough, but Paul humours him anyway. “What are you thinking?”

“Let’s go to Stanlow.”

Immediately, Paul slithers out of Andy’s arms and sits up. He hasn’t been to Stanlow in a long, long time. They used to drive there around dusk and stand beside each other, watching the smoke billowing from the hundreds of towers, taken by the beauty of this grand industrial city. The sky would turn from orange to blue, and the sound of the plant would fill their ears, a distinct rhythmical chug. Paul had often woken up with that sound in his head and wanted to go, but ever since the two of them separated, he never had any reason to. It was always a him-and-Andy thing.

And now they are back together. They _can_ go. The more Paul thinks about it, the more it starts to appeal. The long, familiar drive would help clear his mind, and it seems fitting to do this tonight, of all nights. Not everything has to change between them. “Sure.”

“Only you’ll have to drive, as I’m utterly knackered. Or would 'shagged’ be the more appropriate term…?”

Andy’s propensity for cracking terrible jokes hasn’t changed either, and Paul rolls his eyes, relieved. “I’ll be in the car.”

They help each other with their clothes, and Paul has a quick pang of _I pulled those off him_ as he sees Andy fully dressed. Unbidden, his mind flashes to Andy in the recording booth, before all this began. At the time, Paul was so sick of his presence that even the sight of him was irritating, in his stupid starched shirt buttoned to the throat. That, in turn, was tucked into a set of wool trousers thoroughly inappropriate for the summer heat. There was a certain vindication in stripping him of all that, in getting him down to the barest he could be. Paul wonders how much of the encounter was based on that—the twisted lack of power he felt in their relationship.

Then Andy catches his eye with a faint smirk, and Paul is sure that at least half of it was unrealized lust.

“I may fall asleep on the ride there,” Andy says.

“Fine.” Good, actually. It will give Paul a chance to think.

As it turns out, though, by the time they make their way back to the Gramophone Suite and into Paul’s car, Andy is wide awake. He slides into the passenger’s seat, then sits straight up, grinning.

“Remember that time we went at midnight and that chimney stack flared up around Essar? Christ, was that a sight. You could see it from miles away.”

Of course he does. Paul was the one who spotted the stack in the first place, and he still remembers how it nearly blinded him. More than that, he remembers the look of ecstasy on Andy’s face. The memory strikes him with an unexpected force, and it takes him a few seconds to respond properly. “Wow. How old would we have been? Seventeen?”

“Sixteen-seventeen. God, it’s been so long. You know, I wanted to visit it on my own, but I always thought, I can’t do it without Paul. Even when I hated you, I knew it wouldn’t feel right to go alone.”

“Yeah. Me as well.”

“And I always really loved the way it sounded, most of all. You know, that g-kuh-schuk, g-kuh-schuk. I’m not doing it very well, but—”

“No, I know exactly what you mean.” _Two sides of the same coin,_ Paul thinks.

“Good, good. We should turn that into a song someday.” With that, Andy sighs, turns and places his hand on top of Paul’s.

Paul hesitates, his other hand on the steering wheel. He leans in and gives Andy a soft kiss, just to prove to himself that he can. The slow, dreamy smile that appears on Andy’s face is at once the most thrilling and unsettling thing that Paul has ever seen.

He looks back at the wheel, realizing for the first time that he is in control of his life. The future, far from being some distant, unknowable entity, is here in his hands. He determines where they will go.

He revs the engine and steers them off into the night.


End file.
